Tyrion is a Winner
by HimmelreichLYNX
Summary: Despite his father's wishes to the contrary, Tyrion refused to die- and he wasn't going to anytime soon. And so, to further grate on his father's nerves, Tyrion causes drunken mayhem in Red Keep.


**Disclaimer: **

**I do not own Game of Thrones. **

**A/N:**

**I am in the habit of writing down amusing things my friends say while we are playing video games. Today Gallagher and I played Elder Scrolls III, Morrowind. She challenged me to use her quotes in order in a story. **

**This is the result of that challenge. I am sure that you will be able to discern for yourself which are the quotes.**

***cough cough* everything Tyrion says *cough cough* **

**Also, this story takes place during season 3 of GoT. **

**Oh, and HAPPY HOLIDAYS!**

* * *

><p><em>I'm under the water...but I'm not drowning, <em>Tyrion Lannister muses as he sinks to the bottom of the bathtub.

But then...

_I am drowning, _he realizes. Yet, instead of attempting to figure out a solution to his dilemma like he usually would, he comes up with a **brilliant** idea.

_I can whistle, I guess. _

But when whistling while drowning becomes a task too arduous to continue, he concedes that he must find a way back up to the surface. He manages to 'swim' upwards- albeit clumsily- but finds he lacks the strength to pull himself out of the tub.

Tywin Lannister, wearing an incredulous expression ambles over to Tyrion, who flounders in the tub's shallow water.

"What do you think you are doing?" Tywin questions his son bluntly.

"Oh hey, help meeee...you...you beautiful man, you."

Tywin's brow furrows, and he opens his mouth to say something insulting. Yet, when he notices the desperation so clearly displayed across his son's face, he sighs and decides to aid the inebriated man before him. Tywin grasps Tyrion's arms roughly, and pulls him out of the tub. Then he proceeds to discard him haphazardly on the floor.

"Might I suggest that the next time you decide to imbibe large quantities of alcohol," Tywin begins dryly, eying his tipsy son disdainfully, "you are certain you're in **your own **quarters before taking a bath."

Tyrion rolls his eyes and makes a noncommittal grunt. Tywin tosses his son's previously abandoned clothes at him and he clumsily dresses himself. But then Tyrion realizes he had made a 'dreadful error'.

"WAIT! ohmygods I'm so stuuuupid! Theres a ladder!" He shouts, gesticulating wildly at the tub he had just vacated- which did not have a ladder- and startling his cranky father in the process.

Tywin stares at his son long and hard. He wonders -not for the first time- what he had done to deserve this blathering, drunken dwarf for a son. He decides to ignore Tyrion's ravings and calls for a knight to usher him out.

"HEY! It's me again!" Tyrion greets the knight jubilantly as he stumbles over to him.

"Come along imp," grumbles the knight, who quickly realizes that Tyrion will not be able to walk back to his quarters unaided.

"Grab onto my arm, imp, I am going to have to help you. You're not strong enough in this state to walk without harming yourself."

Tyrion pouts, but he reluctantly obeys and grabs onto the knight's arm. "I wanna be str...str...strenk...strong," he whines.

Tywin watches his son stumble down the hall clutching onto the knight. He sighs and shakes his head before shutting the door with a resounding slam.

* * *

><p>Safely back in his room, Tyrion inspects himself in the mirror. He leers at the red mark on his neck, and thinks back to earlier in the evening when he had received it from Shae.<p>

"Mark of the WINNER," he exclaims triumphantly.

_Yes, indeed, a winner. If being a winner means drinking and whoring day in day out, you are undoubtedly the greatest winner of them all. _A sarcastic voice -not unlike his father's- comments.

Tyrion flops onto his bed and sighs, he muses to himself how his beloved father always knows the best way to build up his self esteem. He is still fully clothed, he had not bothered to disrobe much further than unclasping his tunic.

_You are a Lannister. You need to start acting like one. Don't you have any pride? _

"I will, don't even count on it...wait...DO count on it," Tyrion murmurs, his vision blurring as he feels sleep begin to overtake him.

Then an object on the table in the corner of the room catches his eye. It is a sword, he cannot seem to recall when or why he had discarded it there. Candlelight glints off of the steel surface. Tyrion pushes himself up into a sitting position by his forearms and sneers at the weapon. His father would have liked for him to wield **real weapons- **not those of the mind. Because that's what Lannisters do.

But Tyrion's arsenal of weapons has always consisted of books.

"Not that they do me any good in sword fights with loafs...oafs," Tyrion mutters bitterly, but upon catching his verbal slip up his grimace twists itself into a grin. He cackles at the thought of fighting a loaf of bread. He is nearly brought to tears when he imagines that instead of Stannis's soldiers laying siege to King's Landing, it is thousands of hostile slabs of dough that storm the capital.

He isn't tired anymore, and he can feel some of his drunken haze dissipating.

Tyrion hoists himself out of bed and hobbles over to the door on steadier feet. Then stops short when he realizes that he smells like a tavern despite his bath. Upon discerning that it must be because he is still wearing the clothes from before he took a bath, he decides to rectify this dilemma. He is a Lannister, after all, isn't he? He needs to keep up appearances, doesn't he?

"Oh! Better go put on my fancy outfit!"

With that exclamation, Tyrion elects new, clean clothing and struts out of his room purposefully.

"Ahhhahaha ha! Time for an adventure!" Tyrion chuckles.

He doesn't have a destination in mind, just new-found energy and the desire to move. As he rounds the corner at the end of the hallway he stops abruptly. He spies the knight that had escorted him back to his room earlier, standing stock-still and facing away from him.

"Oh, look, it's mister guard again," Tyrion whispers to himself spitefully. He didn't want to run into him because the knight would undoubtedly deem him unfit to be roaming about the castle, and usher him right back to his room.

Thus, Tyrion walks as swiftly as his legs can carry him in the direction that he came from, and ducks into the first room he sees. Which incidentally happens to be his father's study.

Tyrion spots his father's ledger lying open on his desk. It is a large thing with yellowed pages. Every inch of space available on it's sheets is filled with Tywin's neat copperplate. Tyrion idly wonders how many insidious double-dealings are recorded within it. Did his father whine and pour out his discontent with the whole of Westeros into it's pages? Perhaps the ledger doubled as a diary. This amused Tyrion, and he imagined his father expressing his hidden thoughts and feelings into something that could be so easily sequestered by an enemy, or another slimy double-dealer like Petyr Baelish.

Straightening his posture and clasping his hands in front of him in a mock gesture of Baelish's typical demeanor, Tyrion walks slowly to his father's desk and lays a hand on the ledger.

"Oh yes," Tyrion begins- lowering his voice in an attempt to mimic Baelish's. "I will be taking his HUGE diary. Lord Tywin Lannister has a lot of feelings. He needs a lot of space to write all of them. And I must know these feelings of his so I may cause unrest in King's Landing and climb the ladder of chaos."

Tyrion retracts his hand and laughs.

And then it dawns on him that he is getting far too sober. That won't do- not at all.

_Yes, why don't you drink some more, make yourself sick, and choke on your own vomit. If I can't count on you dying in battle, then perhaps you might have the decency to die from your disgusting habits, _his father's voice sneers.

"Father would like that, wouldn't he," Tyrion mumbles. He knows that his father wishes he were dead. It's no secret.

But dwelling on these things was unproductive, Tyrion knows this very well. It was always better to focus on the more positive aspects of life- like a good wine.

"I want something to drink..." Tyrion proclaims to nobody in particular as he surveys his father's study- looking for something suitable to quench his thirst and chase away his troubles.

Tyrion is in luck. He spies a bottle of Arbor gold on a low shelf off to his right- well within his reach.

"I want YOUUU," he declares cheerfully, and grabs the bottle. But Tyrion is quickly faced with the dilemma in the form of a bottle of Dornish sour red. Which to choose?

Then again, why choose at all?

"I want both of you," Tyrion states, determined.

After all, his alcohol tolerance is better than most people's. He can handle it.

Tyrion drinks deeply from both of the bottles and feels the familiar, warm, drunken haze returning. It is a welcome feeling.

_You are a disgrace to the Lannister name, you should have died at birth. _

Tyrion ignores his father's cruel remarks. Tyrion is a winner, and he refuses to die.

With that satisfying revelation, Tyrion plops himself in his father's desk chair and falls into a deep and satisfying slumber.

***The End***


End file.
